


Clothes Aren't Going to Change the World

by pantomimebanjo



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Genderfluid Character, crossdressing but not really, mentions of transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2647964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantomimebanjo/pseuds/pantomimebanjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beau had more or less always known that “guy” didn’t really work. Or, well, it didn’t sometimes, which just made everything even more confusing. It wasn’t something Beau ever talked about, tried to think about it as little as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Aren't Going to Change the World

**Author's Note:**

> "Clothes aren't going to change the world. The women who wear them will." - Anne Klein
> 
> Inspired partially by ice_hot_13's Brendan Every Day, partially by my own experience as a genderfluid person, then written to match a friend's piece on the same conversation from Bort's PoV.

Beau had more or less always known that “guy” didn’t really work. Or, well, it didn’t sometimes, which just made everything even more confusing. It wasn’t something Beau ever talked about, tried to think about it as little as possible after the one quest through the internet that taught Beau a lot about women who happened to have dicks (which Beau supposed fit, occasionally) and guys who happened not to, but really nothing about.. whatever he was. She was. They were.

Frankly, it was way too much for someone like Beau to process with no backup, so Beau just.. didn’t. Beau let everyone call him a guy, because it was easier, made the most sense, and let Beau keep playing hockey without any hassle. Fast-forward a few years, and Beau had somehow found a more-or-less permanent roster spot on an NHL team and, even more miraculously, a few murmurs online about people who felt a lot more like Beau did.

It was about the happiest Beau had ever been in his whole life.

It took Beau a while to really feel comfortable _doing_ anything about it, even after Beau found words that _could_ explain the situation to people, but eventually, keeping the very conveniently earned reputation as a “pretty boy” and complete goofball in mind, Beau decided that, well, Beau didn’t always have to dress the wrong way. Beau definitely had the money to fund another wardrobe.

Mission in mind, Beau set out to the women’s section of the local Macy’s, for practice. This was about the time that Beau realized Beau had definitely picked the easy route earlier on in terms of clothing sizes, both with logic and which section would actually have something to fit a person Beau’s size.

Refusing to be defeated, Beau returned home, dug out an old tape measure, and spent the next hour playing contortionist to cover all the areas the internet said needed to be measured in order to somehow maybe find a women’s clothing size.

Then Beau went nuts.

Beau was pretty sure the mailman was getting a little annoyed with the sheer amount of packages headed for the same address on a daily basis, at least twenty over the course of a week, but Beau figured that it was his job to bring the mail whether it was an envelope, some magazines, or the results of a serious shopping binge. And that a nice tip left for him when it was all over would probably eliminate any lingering resentment.

Even worse than the infinite steps behind finding properly fitting clothes was the process of summoning the courage to actually wear them. Beau was certainly happy to bum about the house in ladies’ loungewear, but actually leaving the house in one of the new outfits, especially in Pittsburgh, was a horrifying prospect.

Nobody like Beau ever really forgot about all the stories of people attacked, beaten, raped, and killed for simply being in public, and while Beau Bennett was far from a household name, it was nearly impossible to imagine finding a place where nobody at all would recognize it or the face attached.

Eventually, Beau decided to start slowly working pieces into daily use. Some makeup on one day, a small pair of earrings another, shoes or a scarf the next week, yoga pants instead of the usual sweats after a practice. It became normal, little tweaks that none of the guys seemed to notice that began to make a world of difference in Beau’s self-esteem.

So Beau got bold.

The pieces got more obvious: if Beau knew that the media and public exposure would be minimal, a pair of heels made an appearance. Maybe a blouse, a nice cardigan.

A crop top and heels.

Beau knew, somewhere, that this wouldn’t go on forever. What Beau was doing looked outwardly bizarre, given that the entire team (and, admittedly, everyone else in Beau’s life) was convinced Beau was a man, and it was inevitable that someday, someone would want to know what the hell was going on.

Beau also could really not claim to be surprised that it was Bortuzzo who finally spoke up.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s up with the crop top and the heels, or…”

The slight pause left for Rob to finish his question was enough for Beau to shove down the initial panic and glue on a pokerface, deciding that maybe if Beau treated the situation as normal, the defenseman would as well. “They’re cute, aren’t they? I picked ‘em up at Charlotte Russe for a nice deal.”

Whatever bland agreement Rob mumbled barely registered, overtaken in Beau’s mind by a wonderful slideshow of Beau’s former roommate and perpetual best friend easily reducing guys infinitely more inclined to and prepared for violence than Beau to a bloody pulp. It was only very careful acting practice that kept Beau from showing any fear, but something convinced the winger to press on with the chosen tactic, though whether it was foolhardiness, stupidity, or blind optimism insisting that someone who seemed so much to care for Beau would never turn on him motivating the choice, Beau would never be sure. “Thanks, babe. I’m kinda proud I’ve got at least this much sense in style. You know how it is.”

Some noise came from the other’s face, its importance in Beau’s mind totally eclipsed by the fact that he was then moving towards Beau, grabbing Beau, and then Robert Bortuzzo had wedged himself under Beau’s arm as though they were talking about anything else in the world, wormed his own around Beau’s waist, and everything was okay again. Beau started to breathe again, calming down just in time to process that he was talking again, more quietly. “You trust me, right?”

Beau’s careful grin faltered and slipped; the blond was too mentally derailed to hold the facade. The confusion was easily as all-consuming as the fear had been, Beau wondering if he had really just said what Beau hoped to have heard and letting a little paranoia creep back in. “Of course I trust you. Why wouldn’t I trust you?” No real lie could be found in the assertion; Beau trusted Rob probably more than any other person he knew, on and off the ice. But that didn’t include the current scenario.

Beau would trust exactly no one in the current scenario.

But maybe that wasn’t the best way to go about things.

“...Hiding the rest of your cute clothes from me. I want to see them!” However the thought had started, it certainly didn’t end with anything telling Beau that the fear crushing Beau’s inside was anything like valid.

Just because something was always done one way didn’t mean it couldn’t change.

And just because someone knew how a person dressed didn’t necessarily mean they knew anything else about them.

“...Yeah, okay. C’mon.” And someday, maybe someone else would know what Beau always did.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to grab me on tumblr at cptpaulmartin


End file.
